The Exit
by TinyTurian
Summary: A year has passed since the destruction of the reapers, and I have given Samantha everything she wanted, the house with the white picket fence, the retriever, the daughter. And she's happy, Samantha is finally truly happy. But I'm not; happiness is the last thing I feel in this house.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

"_You may kiss the bride."_

_I pull Sam into my arms and do just that, and in that moment everyone standing in the CIC disappears into shadow. Every last one of the unnecessary spectators is gone, and for a few short seconds I'm alone with Samantha, my perfect, beautiful Sam. _

_We stand there in the darkness, my palms draped around her waist, hers resting on my shoulders. She's pulling me closer to her, until the fabric of our dresses are the only things between us. My lips are on hers, savouring her taste, wishing we could stay like this forever._

_Even though my eyes are closed I can see us, both of us, standing there as the happiest moment of our lives is slipping away from us. And when it does it all comes back; the harsh lights of the Normandy SR-2, the deafening applause of the crowd. I have to fight back the urge to grab Samantha by her arm and run from this place as fast as I can._

_She lets go, takes a step back and smiles in that way that only she can. Tears are welling up in the corners of her eyes and for a second I feel like I'm going to cry too, but I manage to hold it back. Samantha takes my hand and we turn to face the crowd, and I try one last time to convince myself that the only person I've ever wanted to do this with is her, living or dead._

* * *

It's like Thane described drell memory to me. I can still remember that moment perfectly, feel her hands on my skin, taste her lips on mine. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and all I can think about is me and her in the darkness. There's only one other memory I can recall so flawlessly.

I remember the rest of the wedding too, but it's mostly a blur. The reception took place on the third deck. Before I knew it Samantha had disappeared into a sea of relatives and friends, so I retreated to the bar, downing flute after flute of expensive champagne to pass the time. It had been Samantha who suggested we have the wedding aboard the Normandy and even though I thought it was a terrible idea I agreed immediately, because Samantha wanted it, and Samantha gets what she wants. I make sure of that.

My side of the guests found me before long, few in numbers since I had a very small circle of friends and the Rear Admiral Hannah Shepard, the only family I had to speak of, had not been heard from since the battle of London. One of them, I forget who, started off by cracking some shitty joke about how wearing black is bad luck for the bride, or something stupid like that. I made a half-hearted attempt at fake laughter before going through the process of greeting them.

Something did need to be said about our dresses though. samantha had picked them out, a matching pair; hers white, mine black. And even though we both looked fucking magnificent in them, I'd never thought I'd be wearing black on my wedding day. Then again, I never even imagined I'd _have _a wedding day in the first place, so I guess that's not really relevant. Still, the curious glances I kept getting throughout the wedding didn't exactly make me feel comfortable.

My guests consisted of Garrus, Kasumi, Zaeed, Kaidan, Vega and Jack. I was especially thrilled that Kaidan had decided to show, considering how _well_ he'd taken my rejections to his many attempts at reconciliation after our one night stand on the original Normandy. The jealous glare he eyed Samantha with during the wedding had turned out to be a great source of hilarity for me. All other of my former squad-mates had died or gone MIA during the war, or before the war, actually. Joker had been invited too, but he never quite got over that I shut down that AI he was trying to fuck.

I spent the rest of the reception there, drinking and reminiscing about 'the good old times' with the people I called my friends. But as Zaeed bragged about how we'd taken down that Blue Sun's guy (whatever the hell his name was) on Zorya, and when Garrus retold the story of our battle against Saren on the Citadel, I started to question if they actually deserved that title. The reapers were gone, so there was no real reason for me to keep them around, now that I no longer needed them. Did I even have anything in common with these people, other than knowing how to point a gun and shoot? Did I even care about them? Had I _ever_?

Something about the thought bothered me so I told the bartender to give me something stronger than champagne. By the time the wedding started to near to its end I was hammered. As the last of the guests were leaving, Samantha, who I'd barely seen since the ceremony, came up to me and put her hands around mine. She looked at me and gave a faint, tired smile, somehow even more beautiful than the one she'd given after the kiss, and I was sure I understood everything she was trying to say.

We waited until everyone had gone and we were left to ourselves, before sharing what we agreed would be our last kiss aboard the Normandy. But as we stepped into the elevator to return to the second deck, where I had slipped the ring onto Samantha's finger two hours earlier, and then leave, an idea forced its way into my head, and before I knew it I had pressed the topmost elevator button instead. In the corner of my eye I saw Samantha raise an eyebrow at me and as I realized what I was doing I turned around and gave her a devious smirk.

She understood. "You _can't_ be serious." She was doing her best to sound mad, but her amusement with me shone through her words. I couldn't resist, I kissed her again.

By the time we reached the first deck our hairdos were tussled and our dresses were practically about to slip off. We tumbled out of the elevator still in each other's arms, and into the cabin together.

The giggles that had been escaping our mouths in the elevator died down. Without the furniture, the fish, the ships or the music we'd used to play on the sound system, it didn't feel like the same room we'd spent every night together in during the war. I walked over to the bathroom door, which slid open automatically with a soft hum. One thing hadn't changed.

A melodic laugh rang out from behind me. I turned around and looked at Samantha. "C'mon, take your dress off," I pleaded sweetly. "I'll keep mine on, for old times' sake." It was a dumb line, but I knew she'd like it.

She kept laughing. "There is no way I'm getting in there with you!" she contradicted herself by letting her dress drop to the floor. "Do you remember how much we paid for these dresses?"

I didn't. I began to back into the shower, Samantha following me in her underwear, and let my lower back press against the gauge, sending lukewarm water raining down on us. She danced into my arms and let my lips meet hers. My hands found her hips and hers found my back. And as we stood there, the endless aquatic stream soaking my dress and her skin, I finally believed it was all over, all the pain I'd suffered and all the trials I'd faced…

From there on out it would just be me and Sam. I could finally rest.

* * *

**A/N: I have no idea how weddings work.**


	2. Ordinary

**Chapter 1: Ordinary**

* * *

Carina is staring at me.

I drum my fingers against the table and stare into the living room, listening to the dog barking in the backyard as I pretend not to notice, but the kid keeps staring straight into my averted eyes. I hate when people do shit like this. Could it be any more obvious that it makes me uncomfortable? I wait a few more seconds before bracing myself and looking back at her, and I swear the girl just whips her head to the side and tries to act like she hasn't been drilling holes in me with her eyes for the past few minutes.

I keep my eyes fixed on her for a few moments, now that our roles have been switched. Her head is turned straight to the left and her eyes dart from the floor, to the wall, to the bedroom door, anywhere except back to me. I stifle a laugh. Is she really this stupid? Then I realise that whatever look my face is displaying, it's probably not one I should be giving a six-year-old and that Sam would be livid with me if she was here right now, so I look away. The kid's stare slingshots back to me immediately, but I don't even care anymore.

Where is Sam anyway? Oh, right, getting dressed in the bedroom. I imitate the girl just a moment ago and look at the door, giving my mind something to distract itself with by imagining Sam undressing in there, black underwear being slowly removed from her body by her small, slender hands…

The door opens and interrupts my train of thought before it can get anywhere interesting. Sam steps into the modern kitchen, fully dressed in her work outfit, how disappointing. Not that she doesn't look good in it, she's Samantha; she could wear absolutely anything and still look hot. But still, her formal clothes are far less exciting than pictures my brain had been conjuring up.

For a moment Sam's face reflects my dissatisfaction, most likely due to the awkward air hanging over the kitchen. She really shouldn't be surprised at this point; it always gets like this when I'm left alone with the kid. She walks over to Carina and starts babying her. Sam asks how she slept, if breakfast tasted good and all that. And like always Carina just mumbles a quiet "Yes" and nods slightly in reply. I know some people are shy, according to my therapist I qualify as antisocial myself, but I can't help thinking that there's something _seriously_ wrong with this kid.

Sam turns to me and begins tying her hair up into a bun, a look I'm not exactly crazy about. "Get her to school on time, okay?" she says. I copy Carina and nod and mumble a yes. Sam seems satisfied with this, because she kisses her daughter on the forehead, says goodbye and walks out into the hallway and leaves.

I rise from my chair, sighing. "Be ready when I come back."

Knowing I won't get a reply, I drag myself into the bathroom without waiting for one. I shower and pull on a shirt and a pair of jeans, all while dreading the day ahead of me.

By the time I park the sky-car outside the private school in Oxford Sam picked for Carina I'm feeling slightly less tired, though still uncomfortable after having spent 15 minutes in an enclosed space with this kid.

* * *

She gets out of the car and I tell her to "Have… fun… at school", trying but failing to sound somewhat motherly. The kid just stares at me like she always does so I close the door and drive off; hoping she at least doesn't need help getting into the building.

_This is my life now, and has been since about two months ago, when the man at the Alliance orphanage in London closed the door behind me and Sam and left us alone with Carina after warning us that she had been traumatized during the war and had barely said a word since they took her in. She had apparently been found among the rubble of a house in London after the final battle, not far from where they found me after I destroyed the Citadel, saving the galaxy in the process. They had been unable to get her to tell them anything about herself, other than her name, and so she was placed in an orphanage, along with countless children whose parents had been killed by the Reapers. _

_We sat down by a small table, a tiny girl with black stripy hair down to her shoulders carefully looking us over from the other side of it. On the way home Sam said she looked like me. I thought about it. Black hair, pale skin, thin, Asian facial features mixed with Caucasian; I supposed I could see the resemblance. We said hi, she just stared. Sam did most of the talking, and eventually managed to get a few "Yes's", "No's" and "I don't knows" out of Carina. But whenever Sam let her voice die down and waited for someone else to speak the room would fall eerily silent, and I would look over at her to see her trying her hardest to repress her frustration. _

_I spent most of the meeting twitching anxiously in my chair, thinking of all the places I'd rather have been right then. When the twenty minutes were up I almost sprang out of my chair, only to be stopped suddenly by the girl's voice. "You're Commander Shepard, right?"_

_I'd introduced myself as Xiola, but she must've recognised me from some news vid. "Yeah", I said, though technically I wasn't "Commander" anymore._

"_The Commander Shepard?" _

"_Yeah." _

_I looked over at Samantha who looked back at me, seeming just as surprised as I was that the girl had suddenly gained the ability to speak in full sentences. Our eyes returned to Carina, who had retreated back into her reclusive shell. We said our goodbyes and left. _

_When we went to bed that night Sam said she loved Carina, that she wanted to adopt her. I wanted to ask her why, what the hell that girl had done to deserve her affection. I said "Okay." _

_The adoption process was fairly speedy since earth was flooded with war orphans at the time, still is, really. Around the same time Sam got a job at a communications agency. I was a little annoyed since we'd just gotten the child that she wanted, but realised it was necessary as the Alliance had seen it fit to give me over a dozen medals but no benefits and or entitlement to pension until I'm 75._

_I still don't quite know what it is Sam does there. I ask her how work was every afternoon when she comes home, but that's really just so I can zone out and listen to her beautiful voice, since most of what she says these days is directed at Carina and not me. But her job pays well, well enough to take care of all three of us and pay our mortgages and bills, so I don't complain._

_That's my day. I watch Sam leave, drive the kid to school, wait for Sam to come home with the kid, then watch her play with Carina and help her do her homework before she makes dinner, then a couple of hours later we go to bed. It's incredibly boring. Some days I see a therapist and…_ shit.

* * *

I'd completely forgotten I'm seeing her today. I check the time: 09:53. I drive faster. "You can make it" I tell myself, trying to make it sound like I care. Dr Whatever-the-fuck-her-name-is' office is in Oxford too, but still far enough from Carina's school that it takes a good 20 minutes to get there, even by car. Why we have to have our sessions ten in the fucking morning I'll never understand. And now I feel a headache coming to life in the back of my head, great.

I end up being late, not that it matters since these therapy sessions are entirely useless. Once we had moved into the house outside town Sam insisted I go see someone, "because of the things you saw in the war" she said. I laughed and pointed out that she'd been in the war too, desperate to escape of the nightmarish idea of me talking openly with anyone other than her. She countered by saying that she had not seen battle or even fired a weapon, and though I could have argued further I backed down, not wanting to have an actual fight with the only woman I cared about. Since I wasn't Alliance anymore they couldn't provide me with anyone, so Sam found me some expensive, ancient, totally unfuckable woman on the 161st floor in a building on Longwall Street. "I heard she's one of the best in the country." I remember Sam saying.

The therapist (whose name I still can never remember after several months) hates me. Of course she can't actually say it, but she has ways of making it clear. I don't mind, because the feeling is reciprocated. She says I don't take our sessions seriously, which is absolutely correct. There's no place in this city, on this planet, I hate more than her office, and the fact that she's terrible at her job doesn't help. Hell, even Kelly Chambers knew more about psychology than this cunt.

When I step into her office she's is already glaring daggers at me. I plop down into one of her armchairs. "You're late."

"Yep."

The old hag looks even angrier and her shrivelled up face gains at least a dozen new wrinkles. I suppress a laugh. She hates me, but I just know she's breaking her code of silence to brag to all her psychiatry buddies that Xiola Fucking Shepard is her client.

It doesn't get any better from there; she asks me about life at home, Sam and Carina, the same inane questions as always. I make most of what I say up; occasionally telling the truth if I think it'll get a funnier reaction out of her. Imanage to provoke her to grunt irritably and frown a few times, which is the only thing I enjoy about these meetings, but the hour and a half still crawls by at an excruciatingly slow rate and I have to resort to picturing myself murdering the good doctor in a variety of ways in order to pass the time. Suddenly I realise she's moving on to the topic of my military career, fan-fucking-tastic.

"Do you miss it?" she asks in an attempt to get something useful out of me, something worth scribbling down in that little notebook of hers, something that will inflate her ego and make her feel like a true professional.

Do I? Do I miss firing bullets at 5000fps into batarian skulls from miles away? Do I miss slamming asari into the ground with my biotics so hard their blood colours my visor purple? Do I miss the screams of dying soldiers haunting my mind in my sleeping hours as well as waking?

_Yes I do I do oh god oh dear fucking god I do I fucking do I miss it so fucking badly._

"No."

* * *

By the time I leave her office my headache is beating against the inside of my skull with the force of a berserk krogan. My immediate instinct is to contact Vilana and once I'm inside the elevator down I act on it. It only takes a few seconds for the holo of her face to pop up on my omni-tool, bushed eyes and a tired scowl plastered on her features.

"What do you need?" the holo asks. That's the one good thing about Vilana; she gets straight to the point.

"Can you be at my house in 30 minutes?"

"Sure." Vilana dissipates.

Five minutes later I'm in the car, probably breaking the speed limit and some traffic laws due to how recklessly I'm driving, but all I can think about is getting home and taking a fix that'll kill this headache.

Vilana's already standing outside the door when I arrive, that permanent frown of hers even more apparent than usual. I can hear the dog barking inside the house, it never stops.

"You're late." She complains.

"Yep."

I walk past her, unlocking the door and stepping inside.

I first met Vilana… somewhere. I honestly don't remember. All I can recall is an asari coming up to me in a crowded room and asking me if I wanted any red sand. I've never liked dusting up, the euphoria only lasts a few minutes and it barely enhances my biotics for some reason, I like to think that they're already as powerful as they can get. I think I told her this because as she led me into a bathroom conveniently located in the vicinity she said something about how she'd forgotten humans even had biotics. I said something equally insulting about her race and she gave a me a dust-like substance called creeper and told me how to contact her. I gave her whatever amount of credits that cost me. The next day she was in my house, and the day after that.

I go into the bathroom to wash my face while she waits in the kitchen, and I'm about to go back to her when I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I stop. Other than the headache I honestly don't feel that bad, but the woman in the mirror looks like she just rose from the grave. My skin is pale, paler than usual, I mean. There are dark half circles under my bloodshot eyes and I think I might have lost weight. I pull off my shirt and stare at my torso. My ribcage is obtruding from under my skin, making itself far more visible than it should be. When the hell did this happen?

I consider putting on makeup, but decide not to since I really don't give a shit what Vilana thinks of my appearance. When I return to the kitchen the wares are already waiting for me on the table, she knows what I like after coming here several times a week for almost two months. I have no idea what an asari is doing selling drugs in Oxford of all places over a year after the war, but I also don't care. I transfer the money to her with my omni-tool, and then go straight for the hallex bottle. I've been a fan of the drug ever since Morinth introduced me to it. I pop a couple of the pills and I'm about to fetch something to wash them down with, as they leave a sour feeling in my throat, when I hear Vilana's hoarse voice from behind me. "Hey."

"What?"

"Wanna fuck?" she rasps. Like I said, she gets straight to the point.

I turn around and look her over, and realise immediately that I have no desire whatsoever to sleep with her. I want to believe that this is because of my undying love and devotion to Sam, but knowing me, if I'd been into asari the offer would probably have been very tempting.

I want to enjoy the moment of turning Vilana down, but the hallex has already started working its magic and my senses are too dulled for me to come up with a clever way of doing it, so I just smile maliciously and say no.

Her face tenses up a little and looks even bitchier than before. "Fine", she says bitterly before seeing herself out.

I waltz into the spacious living room and collapse onto one of the leather sofas and stare out at the white picket fence surrounding the house through the large panoramic windows while I wait for the pills to fully kick in. When we bought the house Sam told me that the picket fence wasn't important, that it was just a detail that I didn't need to bother with, but I was insistent and made all the arrangements to have it put up myself. It was the only thing I was insistent on.

After 10 minutes, all the pills have accomplished is to make me ridiculously horny, almost enough to make me wish I'd taken Vilana up on her offer. I masturbate and think about Thane, then Sam, then Thane again. After I finish I go back to the kitchen, do a line of creeper instead and then stash away the remaining drugs before lying back down on the couch. I can already tell the creeper is better for it, and before long I'm slipping in and out of a wonderfully hallucinogenic dream.

* * *

_This is really the only reason I started with the drugs, to pass the time. Between dropping Carina off at school and Sam coming home with her in the afternoon, I do not exist. I don't interact with anyone other than them, my therapist and my dealer, and though I'm certainly not complaining about my lack of social life, it leaves me a lot of spare time to kill. The absence of the medical drugs I was given during my many months in alliance care after they found me in London could possibly be adding to my need for chemical stimulation, but it's not an addiction, I'm still in control of my want. _

_At one point I start to slip out of the dream and my half-conscious mind starts thinking about the hospital, white sterile walls and beeping machines, Sam sitting patiently by the bedside. At first she was very emotional, she'd often cry, both from happiness and sorrow, but her visits were still pleasant. But after a month or so she began to steer our conversations at the hospital towards houses, the upcoming wedding and other things that didn't interest me. But I was agreeing, not caring where we lived or what kind of retriever we would buy once I was admitted from the hospital. _

"_You're leaving the Alliance, right?" I remember her asking this on one of her visits, and I realised immediately that I was. Not because I wanted it, but because Sam wanted it. "Yeah", I said and felt a stabbing pain inside me. What would I do when I was no longer in the military? I knew no other life. Sam smiled, took my hand and said "Good". The pain went away. _

_Once the memory reaches its conclusion I fall back asleep. My thoughts and dreams merge and suddenly Sam is Kaidan, then Thane, then a husk. It spirals more and more out of control from there and after a while it stops being entertaining and starts making me uncomfortable. I don't wake up until Sam comes home with Carina in the afternoon._

* * *

It takes a while for me to gather enough strength to pull myself off the couch, and once I do and walk back into the kitchen Sam is already making dinner while Carina stands haphazardly in the corner, unsure what to do now that her mother's attention is directed elsewhere. I'd be lying if I said I couldn't relate, that I hadn't experienced similar scenarios, but I'd also be lying if I said I didn't find her discomfort kind of funny. I get the urge to stick my tongue out at her, but then I remember she's the six-year-old, not me.

I turn to Sam instead, who's standing by the stove with her back to me. "Hey."

"Mmm" is the response I get. She doesn't even turn her head. Now I can relate to Carina in two ways.

I place my hands on her hips and bury my nose in her hair (which now has been freed from the wretched bun). This manages to get a reaction out of her, but not the one I had in mind. Just as I'm about to kiss her neck and reach in under her clothes she spins around and before I can even react her hands are clasped around my wrists and her eyes stare into mine with a look that screams "_No". _When she sees the confusion apparent on my face she nods towards Carina who's still frozen in the corner of the room.

Sam turns back to the stove and I roll my eyes in annoyance, doubting I was scarring the kid for life. I turn back to Carina, wanting to direct my anger at her somehow, but with Sam here that's not happening, so I just look at her and pretend I don't hate her, until I notice something.

Carina is holding a cardboard box in her hands. It's fairly large, in contrast to her small hands and body it's seems gigantic. It's a wonder I didn't see it before, and since I'm getting increasingly bored with every second I stand in this kitchen I decide to find out what it is.

"What've you got there?" I do my best imitation of Sam as I say this; she knows how to do these things. Carina looks away and says nothing.

I walk over and take the box from her, which feels heavy in my hands. It looks just like a normal package, but there's no label, sender or address, just a single word written on it in red ink: _Xiola. _The handwriting is strangely familiar. I haven't read many handwritten texts in my life, but I know I've seen this before.

"Where did you find this?" I ask. Again, nothing.

After a moment of silence I hear Sam's voice from behind me. "It was outside, by the door."

I sit down by the table and place the package on it and start ripping off the brown tape it's been sealed with. For some reason I do not ask myself how a package with nothing but my first name on it ended up on my doorstep. Maybe it's the drowsiness from having taken a drug-fuelled nap through the entire afternoon; maybe it's my hunger for something new to breach this ordinary life I've found myself in. Whatever the reason, my hands shred efficiently through the cardboard and before long I'm looking down at what's inside it.

It's a rifle, an M-7 Lancer. The moment I recognise the weapon an avalanche of facts concerning it come back to me, drilled into my head during my childhood. _"The M-7 Lancer was introduced shortly after the First Contact War. Its weight is identical to that of the M-8 Avenger. A Lancer line of assault rifles were later released by earth-based weapons manufacturer_ _Hahne-Kedar." _

It only takes one glance for me to recognise that it's real, not a replica, not an imitation. Then I begin to realise everything that's wrong with this situation, the package, the rifle, the writing on the lid, and suddenly I'm asking myself the obvious question; who sent me this? Where I live isn't public knowledge, and the rifle in the box is a relic from a war three decades ago. _It shouldn't be in my house._

Suddenly panicking, I close the box without even touching the Lancer, but then I see my name on the lid and in an instant I realise where I've seen it before, and I remember who made me memorize all those things. _My mother. _On the other side of the table I see the deceased Hannah Shepard push her thumb down on the top of a blue Alliance fountain pen and putting it to paper. My mouth is dry, sweat is pouring down my forehead and I feel I am about to vomit. My chair clatters to the floor as I run towards the bathroom. Behind me I can hear Sam's confused voice ask something, but I'm already gone.

When I walk back into the kitchen the package is gone and Sam and Carina are waiting for me to sit down at the dinner table.

* * *

**A/N: I know Shepard was calling her wife Samantha in the prologue and Sam here. I decided to change that and I'm going to go back and edit the prologue eventually. **


	3. Mother's Pride

**Chapter 2: Mother's Pride**

* * *

I eat my food in silence and listen vaguely to the words that are exchanged between my wife and her daughter. Even though she's lived with us for few months now, Carina's behaviour has barely changed. She's still infuriatingly quiet and reclusive, but she's obviously warmed up to her mother. Sam seems the only one who can get her to smile or speak in full sentences. This makes me jealous, but not of Sam.

After dinner she puts the dishes in the dishwasher while Carina watches. When she's done Sam takes the child upstairs.

I don't move from my seat. I think about the rifle and my mother. My thoughts are a tangled mess, a jungle of questions without answers. Did Hannah Shepard own an M-7 Lancer? It's possible, more than likely in fact, and the more I think about it the more certain I become that she must have. She had a vast – no – a massive arsenal of firearms. I don't know if they were just collector's items or if she actually used them in battle, I was not allowed to touch or even go within ten feet of them.

What I _was_ allowed to do was memorize their names, manufacturers, firing rates, every single fact and figure concerning every weapon she owned and every weapon she didn't. It was all very educational. One of my earliest memories is of me staring up at the wall on which many of my mother's guns were displayed. My current task was to be able to name all the sniper rifles in the enormous collection, but I was stuck on one large, intimidating black rifle. My mother sat at her desk, going over reports, I think.

* * *

_"…Naginata?" I guessed meekly._

_My mother didn't need to look up from her PDA to know I'd gotten it wrong. "Start over, from the top."_

_I proceeded to get it wrong again, twice, and finally my mother rose from her chair. She walked wordlessly over to the wall and took down the troublesome rifle which name I could not remember. It seemed almost weightless in her hands. She had a look in her eyes I knew all too well. It was the one she wore at the firing range._

_She began walking towards me, and my childish mind thought she was going to shoot me, which of course was ridiculous. She was holding a sniper rifle; if she was going to shoot me with it she would have done it from much farther away._

_She pointed it at my face, slowly and steadily bringing it closer to me. My entire body was shaking, and when it was only inches away from the tip of my nose, I wet myself. It was pathetic. The cold, hard barrel pressed against my lips, pushing them into my mouth._

_"Open up." Hannah Shepard's voice was as cold and collected as always and I did as it told me without question. She didn't need a gun to make me obey her._

_I was trying my hardest not to let the metal come in contact with the inside of my mouth. It was worth far more than a small child and I couldn't imagine what the woman would do if I left saliva or tooth marks on it. I didn't want to find out._

_"Level IX of the Hammer sniper rifle line. It was first introduced by turian-based Elanus Risk Control Services in 2154 and was heavily used by their army in the First Contact War. It can fire 1.3 shots before overheating." I remember those sentences perfectly. She was an excellent teacher._

_Her eyes asked me if I understood. I did, but I was crying uncontrollably and the rifle was so far down my throat that I was choking on it, so I just nodded fervently up and down._

_"Good." She took the gun out of my mouth. I managed to get my next attempt right and was told to move on to the shotguns._

* * *

Hannah Shepard must have known from the moment she was diagnosed with pregnancy that her child would be a soldier; anything else would have been unacceptable. That's why she had to start training me early. While children on earth and human colonies were playing with dolls and stuffed animals, I was on an Alliance station, being educated in their chain of command. When they were learning times tables and division, I was being taught how to most efficiently kill a turian. I fired my first practice gun at age six. I moved on to real ones two years later. It wasn't until I enlisted at age eighteen that I found out that this was not considered to be a normal childhood. Why that is, I still don't understand.

I was just another obstacle in her climb up the career ladder. Due to her efficiency and professionalism both in and out of the field, and her importance to Alliance operations, her higher-ups decided to cover up the fact that she became pregnant with me by fooling around with her own XO, a rare breach in her regular discipline and professionalism. But seeing as I found this out by eavesdropping at a conversation between two particularly chatty crew members on my mother's ship when I was seven, they could hardly have done a perfect job.

I guess this was why she drilled me so viciously; she couldn't allow me to cause her any further humiliation. I had to be the perfect soldier, I had to be her. I can't fault her; I would have done the exact same thing, and she did an admirable job.

I don't want to, but I have to look at the rifle again. Sam said she moved the box to the living room when I sat down at the dinner table, but the underlying uncertainty in her voice told me she'd seen what was inside it. I doubt she knows what it is, but I suppose that a rifle being sent to her house would freak her out whether it was an M-7 or a Vindicator.

I open the cardboard box carefully. I don't know why I do it 'carefully', there's just no other way for me to open it. The Lancer is still there, lying unmoved at the bottom. The idea of touching it, of picking it up, is too foreign to even strike me. I just stare at it uselessly. I can almost feel it staring back at me. A taunting, malicious grin is spreading slowly across its barrel. A pair of small, wicked eyes forms over the laughing mouth. The image my mind is creating is borderline cartoonish, but I do not find it funny. I am no longer asking whose it is or why it was brought to me. I am no longer aware of what I am thinking.

"What is that?" Sam is standing behind me. Her voice is stern. This is one of the few things I am scared of.

"It's an M-7 Lancer."

"That's not what I meant." That wasn't what she meant. "Why is it in our _house_?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

She's interrogating me, and she doesn't believe me. That's what hurts me the most. I'm good at lying, I've been doing it all my life, married life being no exception. I lie to my therapist, to myself when I pretend to care about Carina and to Sam when I tell her I am happy. And never once has Sam called me out on my bullshit. Not because she's stupid, I think she sees through a lot of it, but because she loves me. It's the easiest way to tell if someone does. But now, for the first time in a long while, I'm telling the truth. And for the first time in a long while she doesn't trust me.

She walks around the couch, stopping in front of the coffee table, making it the only thing that's separating us. The panoramic windows behind her are pitch black. Somewhere, the dog is barking.

"Are you ever honest?"

I look up at her, five years old again, pitiful and pleading. "Sam, I'm telling you the truth."

"You don't know what that word means." She's releasing months of pent up frustration with me all at once and she's doing it in short, mildly irritated sentences. But it still hurts, because this is the first time she's wounding me intentionally. If I was a different person I would be crying right now, but that's not something that I do.

"I love you, Sam." I've never meant this more than I do right now.

Her eyes widen when I say that, they widen with anger. She begins to exit the room.

"Where's Carina?" I don't know why ask this. If I'm trying to show I give a shit about the girl then I _am_ actually lying.

"Why do you care?" The kitchen door slams shut.

I'm lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, wide awake. It's the one thing from my childhood I never seemed to grow out of. Sam went up the stairs to spend the night with Carina. Most nights the girl wakes her up and asks Sam to sleep in her bed and keep her comfort, so I'm used to going to bed alone. But I've never liked it. Not since I met Thane.

This was the first time we've fought, and it was probably the most timid argument I've ever partaken in. It was also more painful than any gunfight I've ever fought. But really, the last few months in this house have felt like one long, passive war. I prefer regular wars, the kind you win with armies and firepower.

It wasn't marriage that did this to us. I know this because the first thirty days after the wedding, our 'honeymoon', as Sam called it, were heaven. We didn't go anywhere. We had just found our (Sam's) dream house and most of earth was still in pieces anyway. Neither of us had an urge to see what it had to offer. We were more than happy in the suburbs of Oxford.

We'd spend entire days inside, but they'd be perfect. We'd order whatever food we wanted to eat and she'd try to teach me how to play chess and various strategy games, but her lessons would only last ten minutes or so before we were both on the floor, fucking like animals. I don't think we finished a single game. These days it isn't the same, it's almost as if it's a part of some sort of routine we have. And when Sam moans my name it sounds habitual, as if it no longer holds any meaning to her.

Sam was the one who wanted to live here. For all I cared we could have moved into my apartment on the Citadel, but Sam had "fallen in love with the city" when she went to university there and I wasn't about to oppose what she wanted. Before I was detained in Vancouver I had only been to Earth once, and I did not much care for it.

I shouldn't have reminded myself of that. It's not a memory I like to dwell on.

* * *

_I was ten and it was my first time meeting a relative. I had been excited when I found out we were going to visit Earth, but so far I was not impressed. Copenhagen seemed to be little more than hallways, white metal tubes, and docking bays (we did not go outside once during our two days on the planet, I saw my first tree at age 18). Nothing I hadn't seen in space. _

_I assumed Alice, the woman hunched over in the hospital bed, was my grandmother, though my mother never fully explained our connection to her. She was white as a ghost. Her skin, wrinkles, clothes and eyes; all of it was completely white. The room followed the same theme and the feeble old woman in front me almost disappeared into the bleached walls and machinery. She looked like a crumpled piece of paper. She didn't look at me. She didn't look at anything. She just looked. _

_I don't know how long my mother and I sat there. It felt like hours, but it was probably closer to fifteen minutes. I remember closely studying my mother, trying to decipher the expression she eyed Alice with, but her demeanour was as cold and unreadable as always. It did, however, seem slightly forced; as if it wasn't coming to her as naturally as when she looked at me. _

_I was scared, of Alice, of my mother, of earth. Like I said, I was pathetic as a child. I shut my eyes and listened to the medical equipment and the clock on the wall's desynchronized noises. I wanted to leave. Earth was a horrible place and I missed the vast nothing of space._

"_Xiola, bring Alice her medicine. It's in the bathroom cabinet."_

_I shot out of my chair at my mother's words. I always did when she gave me an order, but in that moment I would have been happy for any reason escape the tenseness of the room. I hurried into the bathroom. I had to pee, so I locked the door and sat down on the toilet seat and began to urinate. The bathroom was also completely and unnervingly white, but Alice and Hannah Shepard weren't there, so I liked it better than the bedroom. I didn't want to go back out there. On the wall in front of me I could see the mirror on the cabinet reflecting the ceiling. Inside it was Alice's medicine. 'She can wait a few minutes more', I thought. 'I don't have to go back just yet'._

_When I returned with the medicine Alice's machine had stopped beeping. If Hannah Shepard's face had a trace of an expression on it, that expression was relief._

* * *

The glowing digits on Sam's alarm clock display three red zeroes and a four, but not in that order. The TV in the living room is on. It can't be Carina, Sam tried letting her watch cartoons once; she didn't show the slightest interest. This leaves only one other possibility.

I have an incredible urge to go out there and talk to Sam, but I know I shouldn't. I'm probably the last person she wants to see right now. Scratch that, I'm definitely the last person she wants to see right now.

And what would I even say? _I'm sorry? _The only person who's ever made me stoop so low as to say those words is Hannah Shepard, and furthermore, sorry for _what? _For agreeing to act out this childish vision of a marriage with her? For following her every command and sacrificing everything, my career, my life, just to make her happy?

I breathe out. _Sam is the exception_, I remind myself. _Sam is the exception. _

I don't realise that I'm climbing out of bed until my naked feet make contact with the icy floorboards. They're still not used to the feeling of hardwood under their soles. Sam sees something in elaborate, old-fashioned mansions with wooden everything. I don't.

As I drag my body through the kitchen and towards the noise of the TV I still don't have a motive, but when has that ever stopped me before. Or actually, maybe I do. Maybe I'm worried that if I don't confront Sam now I'll never see her again. Maybe I'm so paranoid, so in love with her that I think she will start filing divorce papers against me after one petty argument.

Probably.

She's standing with her back to me, facing the colossal TV mounted on the wall. I'm not used to seeing it on, I can't remember the last time I turned it on. It's when I see her like that, standing alone in the living room with her arms unconsciously wrapped around her own waist, that I remember that it wasn't just a petty argument. Not to us, because this wasn't how things were supposed to play out. Our marriage, our future together, this wasn't how Sam had envisioned it.

The screen is the only source of light in the room, and it's casting an abnormally blue glow over us. It's showing a familiar scene: burnt corpses lying among the ruins of a devastated building, cranes lifting away the rubble, only to find more bodies and wreckage underneath it. This is all I need to see to know that it's a news vid. It seems all they show these days is footage of the on-going rebuilding efforts all over Earth. I can hear the newscasters voice clearly now, but none of it registers. All I'm interested in is Sam.

I stop when I'm about five metres away from Sam. She has undoubtedly heard me approaching by now, but she hasn't said anything or turned to look at me. I was hoping she would, since I still don't know what to say. I stand there for a couple of minutes, unsure what to do as I feel the tension rise between us once again, even though I can't see her face. Finally, I'm forced to speak out, if only to stop the tension from rising even higher.

"What city is that?"

"London." Her answer comes immediately, and there's an indisputable tinge of discord in her voice, causing it to fall into a strange combination of sadness, sympathy and resentment.

"Oh."

Silence falls between us again.

There are countless things I want - have - to tell her, but I don't know what any of them are, so I just stand there. I've killed Reapers, destroyed an entire solar system, but I can't set _this _right.

"…_Hannah Shepard…"_

Until now, every sound coming from the TV had gone completely over my head, but those two words singlehandedly drag me back to reality. "…what?"

Sam's body twitches. "They're talking about your mother." The strain on her voice is even heavier this time. "They found her body."

My feet hammer against the floor as I move to stand next to Sam, my eyes wide and fixed on the screen. It's hard for me to make out the words, but I manage to catch enough to understand.

"…_London…Whitecross Street…recently uncovered bodies…badly burnt…DNA testing revealed…Rear Admiral…nah Shepard…Systems Alliance…officially declared… dead." _

I don't blink once through the entire segment. I'm completely frozen to my spot, unable to move.

_They found her body._

_Your mother is dead._

_Hannah_

_Shepard _

_Is _

_Dead_

_You knew this, _I tell myself. _You knew she was dead. _But I am slowly coming to realise that I did not. It was the most logical explanation for her disappearance, yes, and so I clung to it like a security blanket while secretly waiting to hear it be officially confirmed. But this, just like everything in my life it seems, is not how it was supposed happen.

This isn't how I imagined what my mother's death would feel like. I'm not sure how I had imagined it, but it was not like this. Maybe I didn't imagine it at all; after all, I haven't spoken to her in over a decade. Once I officially joined the Alliance she no longer needed to keep an eye on me, and when I became the first human spectre and stepped out of her shadow, she no longer held any relevance to my life whatsoever. Needless to say, I haven't given her much thought in the latter half of my life, (Except for lately when I've looked to her parenting for pointers on how to deal with Carina. But unfortunately, though brilliant, the Hannah Shepard parenting method proved ineffective in this house), maybe I just forgot that she was alive. And that she could die.

_And more importantly, who the fuck sent me that rifle?_

Sam is hugging me. She knows nothing about my mother. When I woke up at the hospital and was informed that my mother was still MIA, I insisted to her that I didn't care. She probably thinks my reaction is due too grief and I don't mind letting her believe that, because this is the first time she's embraced me in weeks.

And still, something about it is wrong. Her compassion isn't real, not quite. Because even though, in her eyes, this is horrible news, it must be getting harder for her to feel sympathy for me. She's doing this because she knows it's what she's supposed to do at a moment like this, not because she wants to.

I don't know how long I stand there. After a while, Sam lets go of me and goes to bed. I'm not sure when that happens either. The broadcast ends, something else comes on, I'm not paying attention. My mind is processing on many things, too many things; so many I can't even focus on one thing. It's all a mess, a big fucking tornado of confusing bullshit and I'm caught right in the middle of it.

* * *

And then I realise I'm in the backyard. I didn't notice myself exiting the living room, but I must have been standing here for a long time because my body is shivering and the otherwise damp and dewy grass feels almost dry beneath my feet. I don't go out here much. The trees behind the picket fence are high as mountains and above them hangs Earth's black, ever looming sky. It unsettles me, it always has. It looks down on me the way my mother always did, the same way Sam looked at me this evening.

The dog, which had been sleeping on the veranda, stands up and looks at me accusingly before quietly slipping back inside through the glass door and I am left all alone in the night. My mother, Sam and her daughter, I'm tired of thinking about nothing but these women, and after I finally manage to push them from my thoughts I'm left with just one word that for some reason echoes in my skull.

_Whitecross._

* * *

**A/N: Sorry it took me so long to get this chapter up, but I ended being a lot happier with it than the previous one. Unfortunately, the next one might take even longer, now that my vacation is over and I have less time to write.**

**Also, thanks everyone who's taken the time to review. I really, really appreciate it. **


	4. Videotape

**Chapter 3: Videotape**

* * *

The little white circle spins and spins on the screen as the video loads. I groan impatiently. My fingers run through my hair. I bite and chew on my lip and the skin breaks just as the first frame flashes across the flat surface. A gasp wrings its way out of my throat and my heart drops halfway down into my gut. I pull my knees up to my breasts where I sit on the floor, wrap my arms around them and fix my eyes on the screen. This is going to be interesting.

* * *

When I woke up today I needed a hallex just to get out of bed. That's never a good sign. The morning that followed was uncomfortable, more so than usual. Sam was cautious around me. Instead of being too captivated by her daughter to even notice me, she now shot hesitant glances at me whenever she thought I wasn't looking. But I was always looking, because consuming myself in her disinterest in me was the only thing that would keep my mind of Hannah Shepard.

When Sam said goodbye before she went to work, I think the look in her eyes was… pity. I'm not sure though, I don't think anyone has looked at me that way before, and I would never have thought Sam would be the first to do so. Up until the war ended she was looking up at me, admiring me. I was the one leading our relationship. She was meek, adorable, _mine_. Now she's none of these things, but I still love her, because there is no one else I can love.

_Whitecross_

But between dropping Carina off at school and Sam coming home in the evening I was left with a lot of time to kill, and I could only rewind my feelings about Sam so many times before Hannah Shepard started pushing her way back into my mind. I snorted a line of creeper and took the dog for a walk (something I tell Sam I do every day when it's really more like once a week). It was warm outside, far warmer than I'd been made to expect English fall would be. Some of our neighbors were outside in their gardens, watering flowers or conversing with each other over their fences. Their presence annoyed me. Sometimes the soundproof walls in our house make me forget that we're not alone out here.

The dog led me down the suburban streets and for a while the drugged haze I had put myself in provided a decent distraction from my mother, but then I saw her standing in a neighbor's window with medals pinned to the chest on her dress blues and I turned around and started dragging the dog back to the house.

_They found her body._

The package was still lying on the coffee table in the living room, taunting me. I tried not to look at it, but somehow the thing still managed to veer itself into my field of vision. I felt sick. I needed a better distraction. I needed to find something.

_Whitecross Whitecross Whitecross_

And then I thought of Thane. He would do perfectly.

It's not as much as I don't think about him these days, it's more as if he's constantly there in the back of my consciousness but never steps into the foreground. I've made a conscious decision to keep it that way, because if I didn't he would tear me apart.

For the entirety of the time the Alliance had me locked up in Vancouver all I did was think about him, our night together on the Normandy, if he was still alive somewhere out there or if Kepral's syndrome had already killed him. It nearly drove me insane.

But then the Reapers attacked. It was a welcome interruption, one I had been looking forward to.

Actually, sometimes Thane does step into the foreground. He does it almost every night in my dreams. They're childish dreams where he's still alive and loves me. On rare occasions he enters my waking thoughts too; usually when I'm in a shitty place, and I can't control myself. I'll tell myself that it's all his fault, that he changed me, made me forget everything Hannah Shepard taught me. Before I met him I was stronger. Before I met him I never asked for help. Before I met him I was still Xiola Shepard.

And I'm right about all of it.

Sometimes I wonder if I would feel the same about Sam if I hadn't met Thane first. At first I thought I was just using her, just like I had used Kaidan, but after Thane's death I began to notice my feelings for her. It surprised me at first. For a while it even angered me. Until then Thane had been the only person I'd met that I felt something other than disdain for, and I felt that my newfound attachment to my Comm Specialist somehow diminished what we had shared.

But my admiration for Samantha Traynor kept growing and in the end I had to give in, because she did what no drug or liquor in the galaxy could do: she made me forget about Thane. That's why I proposed to her before I boarded that shuttle to London, if she was still there after the smoke and dust cleared, then I wasn't going to let anything tear her away from me.

This is the point where I always stop going down this line of thought because I start questioning if I really love Sam or if I'm just using her, which I'm not. Sometimes I really do wish Thane and I had never met. It only complicated things.

But even the galaxy's most skillful assassin couldn't hold off Hannah Shepard forever, and in the end I needed something more tangible than reminiscing. Which is why I'm now sitting here on the floor, barely breathing as Thane talks to me in his deep, soft voice. Seeing him again feels strange, I've seen him in my thoughts and dreams, but seeing him like this, a real moment he lived caught on film… I can't fully describe it, but it stings inside of me.

Thane tried to send these videos to me when the Alliance held me captive, but those bastards didn't allow me to have any communication with the outside world. I didn't even know about it until Kolyat sent them to me in an email after Thane's death. The message also stated that he wanted to hold a memorial for his father; he wanted to hold it in my apartment. He wanted to share him with people who didn't love him, who had never even known him. I obviously couldn't allow that to happen.

When the first video started playing and I heard his voice coming out of the speakers of Anderson's television I started crying uncontrollably. I hadn't cried since childhood, but I was in too much anguish, too unfamiliar with the emotion, to be ashamed. I had to watch it again after I calmed down so that I could hear him clearly.

I haven't watched them since; I decided it was better to forget him, but unfortunately I wasn't able to do that. Even still, my lips are moving along to his words, mouthing them as if I know them by heart. Maybe it's the drugs still lingering in my system, but it almost feels like he's here, sitting right across from me in my living room. I know he's not, so I resist the urge to reach out and touch him, but I want to. I really want to.

* * *

"_Siha, I have prepared emails, sent videos, even composed paper letters. I know this will not reach you, but it must be said._

I'd been lost in thought and his voice catches me off guard. It dawns on me…

"_I once had no reason to live, then suddenly I had two; you and Kolyat. Circumstances keep us apart, so Kolyat takes much of my time, but… I don't know if it's obvious to humans…"_

…this is the fourth message.

"_Fist slams the table. She comes to me, fingers cool and soothing. 'Thane, be alive with me tonight.'"_

This is the _fourth_ message.

"_I cannot forget you. That is what humans say. With us, it is a state called tu fira. 'Lost in another'"_

Sadness morphs into panic.

"_It can consume us. In case you are in the same pain, I want to say…"_

This is why I never returned to these videos.

"…_you have made my life better. You gave me you, Kolyat… Even the Omega-4 relay made me feel… purposeful." _

This is why it hurts so much. This was a bad idea. This was a very bad idea.

"_We are alive, siha. And when we are not, I will meet you across the sea." _

No. I'll let my mother in I'll let Hannah Shepard in I just don't want to think about that please I'd rather not remember those things I'm already pitiful and emotional as it is I-

* * *

"_Get out!" _

_My body was draped over him, shielding his lifeless body, protecting him from his son and the doctor. I don't know if I was crying, but I probably was. Thane always made me look like such a damn fool._

"_Commander, please…" The prayer book was shaking in Kolyat's hands. The bald doctor was cowering behind him._

_I turned my head and looked at them. "Get. Out."_

_They did._

_I stayed with him for three more hours, and then I abandoned him._

"_Do you want to talk about it?"_

_I just wanted to have sex with her, think about something else for a while. I didn't want to sit on the end of my bed in my underwear while Samantha held my hands in hers. She never even met him. How could she understand?_

_But for the first time since childhood, I couldn't say anything. I just sat there and let her try to comfort me, and as the minutes ticked on I realized I didn't want her to leave. In the end I buried my face in her hair for a solid thirty minutes. Then I told her I loved her. _

"_Sam, I want to ask you something." _

_Everyone in the hangar stopped and stared at me. Garrus, Liara, Javik, every last one of them. I didn't care. The war had gone on for months; they could wait another minute before touching down in London._

_Sam nodded. I took her hands and said something I never thought I'd say. _

"_Will you marry me?"_

_The silence became even heavier, that is, until someone behind me whistled in mock astonishment, undoubtedly Vega. I reminded myself to leave the bastard for dead on earth if I got the chance. Sadly, I didn't. _

_Sam's gaze dropped to the floor, some of her black hair falling in front of her face. Her first word came out a sob, but after a few second she managed a yes._

"_Good."_

_I kissed her and stepped aboard the shuttle. The squad followed me. _

* * *

I should have given in to my mother from the start. She always wins. The problem is I just don't know what to do with her or how to feel about her death. I really don't have much knowledge about her, just unpleasant memories and bad dreams.

I don't even know what she looked like the last fifteen years.

I pull myself up; I walk into the bathroom and wash my face. Then I sit down on the toilet lid. I tap my omni-tool and pull up the extranet. I type in her name.

There are only two pictures. There are only two pictures of my mother on the entire extranet. I start laughing. I laugh for a few moments. It feels strange.

I touch the first photo and a two dimensional hologram of it starts hovering above my forearm. Now that I see it enlarged I'm not even sure it's my mother. It's a formal portrait that looks like it was taken for an ID or some kind of registration. She's dressed in her Alliance uniform and looks intently into the camera, but there's something about her eyes. They look tired. She has wrinkles in her forehead and around her mouth and under her eyes and her hair is closer to grey than black. She's not the Hannah Shepard I remember, not the woman I spent sixteen years cowering in fear of. It does make me feel a little better though, that she didn't die a soldier, but an old fucking hag.

I pull up the other photo. In this one she looks how I remember her: fierce. Fierce and beautiful. She always acted like she didn't care about anything except her job, but I could tell she cared about how she looked as well. Those are the two most important parts of a person's life, their career and their looks. She taught me both of those things.

And then I notice, she kind of looks like me.

I stand up and walk up to the mirror. I hold up my omni-tool and look at its distorted reflection in the mirror. I look at the photo. I look at myself. I look at the photo. I look at myself.

She looks _exactly_ like me.

I mean, I know she's my mother, but she looks _exactly _like me, and it's freaking me out.

I decide to leave it at this: I thought I didn't feel anything for my mother, then the bitch went and died and it turned out I that I do feel… something for her. There, that's enough psychoanalyzing myself for today.

I check the time; I've been in here for over an hour. I pull the lid up and take a shit. Then I take off my clothes and take a shower. Then I wait for Sam.

_Whitecross_

* * *

I watch as Sam makes dinner, something healthy and nutritious. 'Carina is a growing girl', as she has a penchant for saying. I wonder what she's thinking. What she's thinking about me, to be specific. I met her parents at our wedding and she seemed to have a regular, healthy relationship with them. It makes sense that she'd assume that my mother and I were the same.

Still, whether she's so quiet to give me room to grieve or because she's still angry about the rifle, I don't know. Either way, it's not much of a difference from our usual day-to-day relationship. I look down at my right arm. A miniature of the photo of my mother is still visible on the omni-tool's interface. I get the feeling Sam doesn't want me to say anything either, but I'm curious about something.

"Do you know what my mother looks- looked like?"

"Um…" Caught off guard by the question, she turns her head slightly without looking straight at me. Her voice is hesitant and just a little bit shaky. "I've seen her in news vids. They showed a photo of her last night, before you came."

"What did she look like?"

"I don't know, she had black hair and she… she looked kind of like you, I guess."

I knew it.

She looks down at her preparations without questioning why I would ask her that, but then she turns back to me almost immediately. "You know, your gun is still lying out in the open, in the same room _Carina _is in?"

What does she think the kid's gonna do, shoot the dog?

"Sure."

* * *

I don't see Carina in the living room, but the box is still there in the exact same spot as before. I look down into it, at the rifle, the M-7 Lancer, possibly Hannah Shepard's M-7 Lancer… no, no more of that shit. I'm done with her.

My hands reach down, and for a second I want to wrap my fingers around the Lancer instead of the box, but I manage to stop myself just in time. I haven't held a firearm in so long. I miss it, feeling the weight in my hands, having all that power and control. I could pick it up, but what would be the point in that? I haven't checked if it's loaded, but even if it is, it's not like I could fire it. What would I even shoot at?

_Carina? _

I definitely need to put this thing away.

I can't think of any other place to put it, so I shove it in under our bed. When get up from the floor and turn around I see Carina staring at me like she always does. For a second my brain thinks she's my mother, which is fucked up 'cause she's six.

"What is that?" she asks.

I reach in with a leg and push the box just a little further in.

"Nothing." Her expression doesn't change. "Sam's probably done with dinner now, come on."

* * *

I keep waiting for Sam to say something to me. I don't really have a reason for thinking she will, I just want her to. I'm probably just feeling lonely. Loneliness, that's another thing I can blame Thane for.

But it's after midnight now and she still hasn't said anything to me, so I'm guessing the chances of tonight not being like every other are pretty low. Sam is sitting in the light of her bedside lamp, reading. The scene is so domestic it's disturbing. At least she's not wearing glasses.

She is wearing a t-shirt though, another horrible habit she's fallen into. First it was underwear, and now she puts on that big, horrible gray thing (which does a fantastic job of hiding her tits) when she goes to bed.

She glances at me for a second when I climb into the bed. It's a very neutral glance. It doesn't tell me anything. Eventually Sam turns the light out and the room goes completely dark. I turn over and let my head sink down into the pillow. I hope tonight isn't going to be one of those where I lie awake until the early morning; I've done too much thinking today as it is.

I hear Sam shift just a little behind my back and I remember that there's still something I need to ask her. I breathe in.

"Does the word Whitecross mean anything to you?"

The pause before she answers tells me that this is something I should know. "That's the street they found Carina on.

"That's the street they found _you _on."

* * *

**A/N: This chapter was such a bitch to write. Not much happens in it, most of it takes place in Xiola's and she can be pretty hard to write sometimes. It also required her to be introspective and self-critical and she's usually not either of those things, so that made it even harder. I'm still not completely happy with it, there's a lot of telling and not much showing which I feel kind of bad. I didn't want Xiola to just randomly convey information about her past, so I tried to give her a reason for doing so with the rifle and the videos. Not sure if it worked, but at least I finally got it done. Thanks for reading. **


	5. Slow Motion Sickness

**Chapter 4: Slow Motion Sickness**

* * *

Another uneventful day passes, but for once I'm grateful for the peace and quiet. Things happen as they usually do. Carina stares at me blankly when I leave her in her school's parking lot, and in the afternoon Vilana magically appears in my living room (I'm not even sure if I called her) with a fresh supply of narcotics ready to be sold and purchased. As we complete the transaction I worry for a minute that she'll say something about Hannah Shepard (because even she must have heard the news by now) just to fuck with me. Thankfully, she's her usual bored self, and barely says a word during her brief visit.

I hope things will go back to being this way and that the last two days were just a temporary mishap in my new, 'normal' life. If the alternative is seeing dead people and antique firearms appearing at my doorstep, then I'm perfectly fine with being a dissatisfied spectator in Sam's suburban dream life.

I need to get better at remembering that Sam's the only reason I'm even here. If she had been anyone else I would have left long ago. But I haven't, so somewhere I must still believe that our relationship can go back to the way it used to be.

For the most part, things go decently well. I keep my mind occupied by creeper and hallex and stay inside the house as much as possible. But then Sam reminds me at dinner that I'm seeing my therapist tomorrow, and my mood significantly worsens.

* * *

Before I know it it's 09:57 the next morning and I'm sitting in one of the chairs in the waiting room outside her office. This is the first time I've ever been on time to one of our sessions. My hands are shaking and the water in the plastic cup I'm holding ripples. There are so few things in the world that I'm scared of; this shouldn't be one of them. It never was until now. I've never even taken our sessions seriously, but I'm not sure if I have the energy to be a sarcastic bitch right now, because I know exactly what she's going to ask me, and I have no idea what I'm going to answer.

Her office door opens at precisely ten o'clock. I walk through the doorway and she smiles at me in a way I think is meant to be welcoming, but the way the rims of her lipstick covered lips push apart her cheeks and split open a thousand lines and wrinkles in her face just freaks me out. It's like if a husk tried to smile at you.

I drop down into one of the armchairs and begin to stare her down. That's the approach I'm going to have to take today, if I can't deflect her questions then I'm going to have to face them head on, and by that I mean doing nothing. She says hello and I don't respond. A brief, uncomfortable silence follows and then she speaks again.

"I heard about your mother. I'm sorry."

Her voice is somber and sympathetic, but on the inside she's undoubtedly ecstatic. I picture her sitting in her living room, fireworks going off inside her head as she and the fat, bald husband she probably has sit watch the news vids about my mother's death. I can't begin to imagine how much she must have been looking forward to this moment. Confronting the most famous woman in the galaxy about her recently deceased mother, it's like something out of a psychiatrist's wet dream.

Another thick layer of silence falls over the room, this one lasts much longer than its predecessor. At one point I catch the corner of my therapists mouth turns downwards for half a second in a flash of irritation, but then she returns to her state of fake compassion.

"How do you feel about it? Has it affected you in any way?"

I look her straight in her eyes. "No."

She's unable to stop a heavy sigh from slipping out her throat. The silence returns. After a while my eyes slide down to my omni-tool's interface to check the time. 10:11 AM. 49 minutes left of this shit. I go back to glaring at my therapist. She's not getting shit out of me.

She moves her fingers and, excruciatingly slowly, jots something down on her notepad. Then she says:

"What kind of relationship did you and your mother have?"

"When did you last see her?"

"Would you rather not talk about this?"

I say nothing. Not a single of my facial muscles move and my eyes are fixed in a disdainful state. I know I'm behaving like a child, I know it's beneath me, but this is over. I decide, in this very moment, that this, all of this, is over. I watch my therapists eyes narrow. My own glance down at a name tag just above her breast pocket that I've never noticed before. It says: _Dr. Schumacher._ Apparently that's her name.

"Do you miss her?"

At her words, my eyes shoot back to Dr. Schumacher's face. But Dr. Schumacher isn't there anymore. Instead, Hannah Shepard is.

"Do you miss _me_?"

My mother leans forward. I lean backwards, away from her, and my shoulder blades dig into the plush leather seat behind me. Expressions flash over my mother's face, happiness, sadness and broad, evil grins. None of them are expressions I've ever seen her carry.

I'm not sure what I look like as my mother rises from her seat, puts both hands on the small table that separates us and looks at my face, but the way every inch of my face stretches and hurts makes me think I don't look to good. My mother is still wearing my therapists cream-colored pantsuit and the nametag that reads _Dr. Schumacher _is still there on its lapel_. _

"_What kind of relationship did you and I have?"_

_"When did you last see me?"_

"_Would you rather not talk about meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-"_

Her voice starts fading out into white noise. Her lips are still moving, but I can't hear a word she's saying. I just see a young, spry Hannah Shepard (who looks just like me), her face inches away from mine.

Finally, I manage to reach out an arm and push her back into her chair. Without looking at her I scramble out of my seat and run straight for the door. I exit the building, my brain feeling as if it's on fire.

* * *

The drive home is a long, horrible Technicolor blur of stoplights, headlights and streetlights. Just lights, lights everywhere, too many fucking lights. They make the headache even worse. I try to speed up, but the car is already going as fast as it possibly can, which is not fast enough. I need to get away, far, far away from her.

The moment I step inside the house I start marching straight to the liquor cabinet. If that's the kind of shit my brain makes me see when it's sober, then I'm sure as hell going to get it drunk. "OPEN!" I roar when I'm close enough to it. It slides open with a familiar hum. I like the sound, it makes me thirsty.

Inside it are rows upon rows of alcoholic beverages. Half-drunken flasks of wine, stylishly shaped vials of Scandinavian vodka and left-over champagne bottlesfrom the wedding, still unopened almost a year later.

I pick a vial at random and take a long, thorough swig. The cool, soothing taste of whiskey flows down through my throat. The liquid runs out much faster than it has any right to, so I open another, and another, and another.

Slowly but surely, the headache my mother starts being replaced by one of drunken numbness. I go into the bedroom, draw the curtains and lay down on the bed while I continue emptying bottle after bottle.

I suck on the tip of the neck of a vial of vodka, beer, or whatever it is, and stare up at the ceiling. Above me, at an indistinguishable distance, Hannah Shepard hangs. I try to look away from her. I twist my head in all possible directions and shut my eyes, but she's everywhere. I suckle on the cold and comforting neck of the empty glass bottle in my hand as the burning pain growing in my head starts making it impossible to think.

* * *

_I'm having a dream where a young man in an Alliance uniform leads me down a long, sterile hallway. I'm young too, my hair is very short and I've never in my life worn make-up. It's early in the morning but I am wide awake. The man is not saying anything to me, but I already know where he's taking me. _

_He's one of my mother's men, and like all of the people she has under her, he's been instructed to have as little contact with me as humanly possible. He makes a turn to the left, then one to the right, then another to the left. The silent promenade through the white, metallic tubes seems to have no end, but I know what the end looks like. The end is me and the soldier standing in front of a shuttle. Just like on the chest of his uniform, the blue Alliance logo is printed in massive scale on the shuttle's door, which lifts with a defeaning roar, disrupting the until now unbroken silence. _

_I look at him. My entire life I've been taught not to expect anything from her, but even now, at 17 years, about to leave for my first official Alliance posting, I'm still hoping for something. That she'll turn up, that she's given my escort a message to give me, anything. _

_But it's too late, I've already stepped aboard the shuttle. With another monstrous bellow, the door slams shut behind me. Then everything goes dark._

* * *

I wake up to the following: a dry throat, another burning headache and an overwhelming need to piss. I'm lying on the bed. My vision is slightly blurred, but I can still clearly make out what the brownish, greenish pool on the floor next to the bed is.

"You fucking idiot." I mumble to myself, feeling the sour taste of vomit on the tip my tongue. I did not think this through.

I guess I should be happy. After all, I succeeded in my mission to get smashed, but mostly I just wish I had choked on my puke instead. I just hope I can clean this up before Sam comes home.

I'm just about to check what time it is when I hear footsteps from the hallway.

_Fuck._

Sam emerges into the room, carrying a plastic bucket undoubtedly filled with cleaning equipment. She kneels on the floor next to the puddle. I look at her and try to think of something to say. The word that comes out of my mouth is: "Hey."

"Hey." Sam replies, continuing to mop up my puke.

"Sorry about this."

"It's okay."

"Is it?"

"No, but I'm not really surprised."

I don't know what to say to that. When she's done, Sam stands up and puts the bucket next to where I'm lying on the couch.

"Are you going to throw up again?" she asks me.

"No."

She leaves the bucket there anyway. She looks at me for another moment or two. I look back up at her. Her face is blank and tired. Her hair is down and she looks beautiful.

"Why are you like this?" she asks. Then she leaves.

* * *

The next day I drive Carina to school, wait for Sam to come home, keep my mouth shut and try not to think about anything whatsoever.

* * *

**A/N: Writing two other fics right now, so this one's going a little bit slower again. One of my new fics is an Assassin's Creed fic, so yeah, if you like AC then please check it out. It's a pretty straight forward romance story told in past tense from a 3d person pov, SO much easier to write than this. **

**Anyway, thanks for reading. And an extra big thanks if you reviewed, it's super appreciated. **


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